IN THE AFTERNOON, Albertine and I walked the perimeter of the island, along the margin, circumambulating our domain. This walk was once a part of every day, a high point of every day. In our early years here, we used the walk to scheme and dream. Later, when our dreams for the place began to seem as improbable as Porky White’s for Kap’n Klam, our walks became an escape valve. We would walk and talk and let off steam when we needed to let off steam, and we’d feel better for it, and sometimes we’d even slip back into schemes and dreams. Then the circumambulatory walk began to slip out of the day, and our days have been worse without it.
Walking with Albertine along the western edge of the island, where we were well removed from the dredging, I began to feel the old buoyancy return. I was optimistic about the prospects for Murder While You Wait — I’d even begun to think about the movie version and licensing possibilities for a line of active wear and toy weapons — and I thought that the time had come to begin telling Al about it, but she spoke first.
“Fear has become the dominant emotion in my life,” she said. “I am afraid of running out of money, completely out of money, of having everything we have taken from us. I am afraid that if we can’t find a buyer — a real buyer — then we will reach a point where everything is taken from us. Nothing we have done will have amounted to anything.”
A dullness came over us, an emptiness. We walked along for a little longer in silence, with our heads down, and then I stopped her, put my arms around her, held her, told her that I loved her, promised to get her away from the island and take her to another place, another life, raised her chin, kissed her, hugged her again, and pointed out the complete absence of cats in this part of the island. She burst into tears.
“What?” I asked.
“The cats — ”
“You want them back.”
“Oh, yes, please. They’re probably starving over there.”
[to be continued]
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